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“What on earth did he do? Murder someone?”
“Shhh. Keep your voice down. And yes, he may very well have killed his wife. I know he’s entitled to sit in the House of Lords, but really, to hear that the Prime Minister himself seeks his counsel, and that on occasion the Queen still receives him, boggles the mind. In my opinion, he should be put on trial for murder and, when he’s found guilty, stripped of his title.”
Artemis raised a brow in skepticism. “Surely if he had committed such a terrible crime, he would have been.”
Aunt Roberta huffed derisively. “He’s a duke. Rumor has it that he bribed the coroner at the inquest into his wife’s disappearance to let him off scot-free.”
Artemis seriously doubted it. Nevertheless, her curiosity was piqued. “His wife disappeared?”
“Yes. In the most mysterious of circumstances. Nine years ago. You see, she’d apparently been unwell for some time after the birth of their first child, a daughter.”
“Unwell?”
“Yes. You know, not quite right. Unstable.” Aunt Roberta affected a dramatic whisper. “Mad.”
“Oh, how awful.”
“Some—not many—say it’s all a terrible tragedy. That the duke is completely innocent of any wrongdoing. But I don’t think so, and neither does his late wife’s poor family. You only have to look at His Grace and you can see that he’s—”
“Rather handsome?” supplied Artemis.
Aunt Roberta fixed a gimlet-eyed stare upon her. “Don’t let his good looks and charm fool you. He’s also dishonorable and devious. And, as I said before, dangerous.”
“Humph,” said Artemis. “I’m not one to gossip, but you really must tell me more so I can judge for myself.”
“Well, apparently the duke and his wife, Juliet, were a veritable love match and married quite young. But she only bore him a daughter, and then, as the years went by, failed to produce a son so…” Aunt Roberta shrugged. She might as well have run a thumb along her throat in a slashing motion.
Artemis sipped her champagne, then frowned into its sparkling depths. Why did the name Juliet also ring a bell? Something began to niggle at the back of her mind. A distant, hazy memory, but then it disappeared like one of the bubbles in her glass. Aloud she said, “I’m afraid I’m missing your point.”
Aunt Roberta rolled her eyes. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? As I mentioned, it was rumored that Juliet went mad. And so that the duke could remarry and sire an heir, he murdered her and then disposed of her body in one of the bogs near Ashburn Abbey, his estate on the edge of Dartmoor. In fact, her remains have never been found. The coroner ruled it was all a terrible accident—a death by misadventure—at the inquest, but who in their right mind would believe that?”
Artemis arched a brow. “As opposed to the idea that a man would kill his wife because she couldn’t beget a male heir? Are you seriously comparing the duke to a murderous tyrant like King Henry VIII?”
“Well”—Aunt Roberta lifted her lorgnette and gave her a pointed stare—“the duchess had only produced a useless daughter after seven years of marriage. And the duke is a man in his prime…”
Now it was Artemis who gave a derisive snort. “This isn’t Tudor England. One would think we’re living in more enlightened times. And daughters arenotuseless.” She tossed back the rest of her champagne and handed the glass to a nearby footman. “Haven’t you noticed that our present monarch is a woman?”
“Daughtersareuseless if you’re a duke, and you need a son to ensure the continuation of the family line,” replied her aunt dryly. “Suffice it to say, you need not worry that I’ll allow that man to put his name down on your dance card, or Phoebe’s. If he comes anywhere near you—”
“Lady Wagstaff? I hope you’ll forgive the interruption.”
Artemis looked up to see their hostess, Lady Castledown, standing right in front of them. And beside her was none other than the Dastardly Duke himself. His mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile as his gaze briefly touched Artemis’s before returning to her aunt.
Aunt Roberta’s mouth dropped open. “Lady Castledown. I… Of course. I mean…” Her startled gaze darted to the duke, then back to the countess.
If Lady Castledown noticed Aunt Roberta’s befuddlement, she didn’t show any sign of it. She was the picture of practiced poise as she said, “His Grace, the Duke of Dartmoor, has asked for an introduction to you and your charming niece”—she inclined her head in Artemis’s direction—“with a view to asking Miss Jones for the next dance.”
The duke had been watching Artemis as Lady Castledown had spoken. “If your dance card isn’t full of course, Miss Jones,” he added smoothly.
Oh, how had she already forgotten that his deep voice reminded her of the powerful roll of a distant ocean?
“I…” Artemis swallowed, momentarily flummoxed. She’d never expected anything like this to happen tonight. She suddenly felt like the whole room was watching her and the duke. And like her, everyone was holding their breath. She was conscious that Phoebe was openly gaping and that Lucy’s hands were pressed to her cheeks. Whether in horror or with excitement, Artemis had no idea.
Of course, Artemis could refuse the duke’s invitation. No one would blame her. Many claimed he was a murderer. However, rumors weren’t facts and Artemis’s instincts told her that the duke was not a man to fear.
As if her aunt could hear her spinning thoughts, she leaned close and murmured, “You don’t have to, you know.”
And in that moment, Artemis decided. “I would love to, Your Grace,” she said, dropping into a small curtsy because it seemed like the appropriate thing to do in the circumstances.
